“Sir?”
Kowalski turned, smiled, and waved at the desk clerk with his bad wrist. It hurt like fuck; he’d really torn something in there.
But given the circumstances, it was simply the badass thing to do.
2:52 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
Jack was amazed at how easily the lies slipped out of his mouth. He knew Mr. Charles Lee Vincent—that was the guard’s name; another mystery solved—wouldn’t believe the crap about the Mary Kates and nanomachines and Ireland and San Diego. Jack still hardly believed it, and he’d almost had his brain explode inside his skull.
So he needed to tell Mr. Charles Lee Vincent something he’d believe. Something that would keep him around.
“Listen, I have an extreme anxiety disorder. You saw an example of it a few minutes ago.”
Ah, you silver-tongued devil, you. Pile it on thicker.
“My psychotherapist told me that being alone for more than a few seconds could lead to stroke.”
Charles Lee Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Okay, sir. I hear you.”
“You have to understand. You can’t leave me alone. Not for a second.”
“I understand. But you need to understand that I have a job to do. And that includes calling the police, so we can catch the guy who did this.”
The police. A few hours ago, Jack would have thrown his arms around the idea, French-kissed it. But now he followed it through to its natural conclusion. Jack in an interrogation room. Jack being offered a cup of station house coffee. Jack saying, “Officer, I’d like to report a murder.” Officer saying, “Whose?” Jack saying, “My own.” Jack watching the detective leave the room, close the door. Jack counting ten seconds before his brain exploded like a pinata.
And even if he were able to keep detectives in the interrogation room with him, what could he say to them? He had no proof that Kelly White existed. Wherever she’d gone, or had been taken, her bag was along for the ride.
“Okay, buddy, we believe you. We’ll be right back with that coffee,” the cops saying.
The door of the interrogation room closing.
Ker-bloooie.
“Just take me downstairs,” Jack pleaded. “Let me sit with the guy at the front desk, and you can do what you have to.”
That was his only chance. And from there, find a place with a lot of people. A crowded bar. Wait—it was close to three in the morning. Bars were closed. So were coffee shops and malls and post offices and food courts…. Oh Christ. This was Philadelphia in the middle of the night. A town where they reportedly rolled up the sidewalks after 6:00 P.M.
“Okay I can do that. Come on. Let’s get down there. That son of bitch took my cell—wait. Give me a sec to use the room phone, okay?”
Jack nodded, but then he realized what he was doing. The nightstand with the phone was on the other side of the room. Oh fuck. Was that more than ten feet away?
2:53 a.m.
For the past hour, nothing in Charles Lee Vincent’s world had made a goddamned bit of sense. From Tokyopop and backward comics to tough guys who liked to choke people to this guy now … following him across the room, sitting close to him. Extreme anxiety disorder? Yeah, extreme anxiety that your wife is going to find out you had a hot blond hooker up here in your room. Tough titty said the kitty. It wasn’t Charlie’s problem. This guy had the bad luck to be in the wrong room at the wrong time. That’s all.
Charlie told the front desk what he knew, rattled off a quick description, told them to seal the front doors until he got down there. He’d get the police over here now, and they’d go room to room if they had to.
Until they found the guy who liked to choke the air out of people. Charlie hoped he’d be with one of his ex-brothers on the force when they found this guy. They’d let him alone in a room with the fucker for a few minutes. Let him see what oxygen deprivation feels like. He also asked the details of the occupant of this room. Yep, as he’d figured. Married. Married, and damn near sitting on top of him in the bed. Like, hello? Ever hear of personal space?
“Um, ready to go downstairs, Mr. Eisley? There are plenty of people down there to keep you company.”
2:55 a.m.
Sheraton Elevators, Right Bank, South Side
Jack worked out a plan on the ride down. More or less. Once he got to the lobby, he’d play up the anxiety disorder, make someone sit with him. Then he’d map out a plan. All he needed was proof that Kelly White’s crazy story was true. The fact that hotel security saw some big bastard in a suit jacket show up to abduct her wasn’t enough. He needed proof.
Those files in San Diego, specifically. He had to catch a cab, hop a plane to San Diego, go to the Westin Horton Plaza, grab the files, then call the police, the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and anybody else who would listen.
Except that he would be dead by 8:00 A.M.
The poison.
The luminous toxin.
He was most likely the only guy in Philadelphia with two things racing around his bloodstream—Mary Kates and luminous toxin—with the potential to kill him. Unless you counted AIDS-ridden crack whores. But even those sorry fuckers didn’t have a time limit of five hours.
Think, Jack, think.
Even if he were in a plane that was taking off at this very minute, there was little chance he could be in San Diego by 8:00 A.M. Local time, sure, but the poison in his blood didn’t care about time zones. When it did whatever it was supposed to do, Jack would be dead.
And that’s even if he managed to stay within ten feet of a person the entire trip.
What if he had to use the bathroom?
With all of this racing around his head, he hardly noticed the elevator doors open. Charles Lee Vincent led him by the arm across the lobby, telling the desk clerk, “He needs someone to stay with him at all times.”
And then the desk clerk was saying something about the Philly PD being on their way. “Christ, what a night. There’s some lady passed out up on five, bleeding from her nose.”
And then Vincent was responding, saying that he was going back upstairs to start looking for this son of a bitch. “Seal the front doors…. Jesus, didn’t I tell you to seal the front doors?”
“I’ve never locked down completely. Where are the keys?”
“In my office, top drawer, lockbox marked with a black X in Magic Marker. You’ll see the master key on the left. Says ‘master’ on it. Hit the revolving door, then the two on the sides.”
“You got it.”
Jack realized what was going on.
“Wait! Don’t leave me!”
“That’s right. You’ve got to stay with him.”
“I’m just going to your office.”
“He’s got…” Charles Lee Vincent started to explain, then decided against it. “Look, I’ll lock up. Stay with him, okay?”
As Vincent walked away, Jack realized that locking the front doors meant he’d be trapped in here. And then the police would arrive, and then, sooner or later, he’d be locked in a room for questioning. They wouldn’t buy the anxiety stuff. In fact, they’d probably gather around the two-way mirror, passing around bags of potato chips, waiting to see him pop.